The Nutcracker
by LordKristine
Summary: A retelling of the classic tale, based on the AB production.


It was a cold winter, even for Russia. The streets were completely iced over, and the shop windows were delicately framed with a thin sheet of frost, which formed jagged patterns as it enveloped the frozen glass. The air was so frigid that any person who dared to venture outdoors would immediately develop a nasty case of frostbite, or simply freeze altogether if they weren't careful.  
On any other day, this weather would provide a harsh and bitter atmosphere, putting the good people of Russia in a generally dismal mood. This particular night, however, happened to be Christmas Eve.  
The terrible weather was a negligible hardship, since many families had blazing fires in their chimneys, which seemed even warmer when compared to the blizzard outside.  
Although each residence seemed to be aglow with marvelous festivities, one particular household stood out as the most extravagant of them all.  
The Vishinsky family was hosting a massive Christmas party in their home, an age-old tradition that attracted Russia's most prestigious socialites and, upon occasion, Russian royalty.  
None of this, however, was of any significance to the thirteen year old Klara Vishinsky. She was far too young to be interested in politics or finances or whatever it was that adults talked about in their spare time. She was, however, looking forward to the arrival of the guests, because whenever aristocrats and businessmen attended her father's parties, they often brought their children along as well.  
She gazed out the window in anticipation. Nobody had arrived yet, and it was getting late. She tilted her head upwards to peek at the clock tower across the street. It was almost eight o'clock, and she hadn't so much as caught a glimpse of a carriage yet. She tugged at the lace of her white dress anxiously. Were the guests lost in the snow?  
Before she could dwell on the thought, she was knocked off her feet by a fast-moving object. As she fell to the ground, she could hear giddily malicious laughter.  
"Nikolai, that isn't funny!" fumed Klara.  
Her brother picked up his throw pillow (which had lived up to its name) and laughed like a hyena, yet he somehow managed taunt her between his breaths.  
"You should have . . . seen the . . . look on your face! It was . . . priceless!"  
Klara pushed Nikolai away and ran upstairs. She was fairly certain that her mother would be putting on makeup or adjusting her jewelry in preparation for the party. Sure enough, she was gazing at her reflection in a large, ornate mirror. Klara entered the room with an air of determination. Her mother greeted her with a warm smile.  
"Klara, darling, would you kindly fetch my good earrings?"  
Klara marched over to her dresser and rummaged through the jewelry pouches hastily, eager to steer the conversation in her own direction.  
"I do hope you're being kind to Nikolai, he's had the flu, you know, and- No, dear, the diamonds earrings . . . Yes, those are the ones. Anyway, you should try to be more patient with him. You know how he gets around Christmas . . ."  
And there it was. Klara hadn't said so much as a word, but she had already lost the argument . . . if that could even be called an argument. She was resentful of her mother's warning, but was in no position to argue.  
She watched as her mother fastened her earrings.  
"I know you two don't always get along, but this is a very important night for your father, and we have to make a good impression. Besides, once the guests arrive, you can go play with all the other children."  
Klara wrinkled her nose angrily. She knew that Nikolai would pester her all night if she didn't put her foot down. She looked up and realized that her mother had already left the room.  
So much for paying attention.  
Klara marched down the front staircase angrily. Her mother was poking and prodding at the fireplace, releasing a cloud of embers and smoke. Although she wanted to discuss many things with her mother, Klara knew that no matter what, she would be blamed for Nikolai's behavior. He acted like a saint around their parents, but as soon as they turned their backs, things would go horribly, horribly wrong. She wished he would behave, just for one day . . .  
Klara stared at the fireplace wistfully, unaware that beneath the cobblestone tiles, someone was in more trouble than she.

"Brace yourselves! The fire's blazing again!"  
Beneath the fireplace, several rats flung themselves flat on their bellies and covered their heads with their tiny paws. The sky above them began to rain fire. Soot and debris tumbled down in wafts, covering their tangled fur with a thick layer of grey dust. After a long stream of coughs, they brushed off their clothing and went back to work. Christmas was both a blessing and a curse for the chimney rats. On one hand, food was plentiful, since a good number of careless guests would drop pieces of cheese or breadcrumbs under the furniture in their oblivious merriment.  
Winter, however, was particularly cruel under the chimney, since the air was either freezing cold or hot and polluted. This night was no exception.  
Another wave of smoke flooded down from the gaps in the stone, stinging at the rats' eyes and clouding their vision. A young female pushed her way through the crowd, anxious to get past the danger zone. Her fur was less sooty than the males around her, for she had been sheltered in the throne room of the Rat Palace. Indeed, she was Fidget, Tsaritsa of the Rat Empire. Her father, the Rat Tsar, was the most feared rat in the household, and for good reason.  
Unlike Fidget's deceased grandfather, the current Rat Tsar was not yet adorned with the red robes of the ancient Tsars. Instead, he utilized the pink robes of the lesser rulers, a wardrobe which would be upgraded in a year and a half, maybe less. It was hard to keep track of time in a chimney.  
Fidget scurried up a wooden beam, weaving her way through a line of worker-rats who were carrying bits of rubble. She darted up the plank, much to their annoyance. One rat lost his balance and dropped his stone. It rolled over the edge, bounced off several walls, and disappeared out of sight. Fidget wondered if it had stopped falling, but a loud "conk" and a long stream of cursing indicated that it had not. The rats that had been peering down into the chasm turned to scold Fidget, but she was already gone.  
She continued to climb a series of planks and beams, brushing past anyone who got in her way. She didn't want to draw too much attention to herself, but she didn't exactly want to slow down either. If she stayed put too long, she could be-  
"Fidget! What are you doing up here?"  
. . . caught.  
Fidget froze in mid-scurry, her fur bristling at odd angles. She recognized the captain of the Cossack Rat Army, Marshal Tickles. Although his name was less than intimidating, it brought fear to many rats, especially those who had seen him in battle. He was a brutal creature with a long military history, or so she was told.  
Although Fidget had no hierarchical reason to fear Tickles, she was trying to avoid him for several reasons. First, she didn't want her activities to be reported to the Rat Tsar. Second, he was much stronger than she was, so she had little to no chance of overpowering him. Third, he was missing an eye, which freaked her out. A lot.  
Fidget had known Tickles for almost eighteen years, and she still couldn't look directly at his missing eye. It was barely a socket, but it twitched whenever he blinked. Fidget wondered if it caused him pain. Maybe it was on the brink of exploding . . .  
"When you're done staring off into space, perhaps you could answer my question."  
Indeed, Fidget had been standing immobile for an abnormal amount of time, staring blankly at nowhere in particular. Tickles tilted his good eye towards her and frowned. That brought up another question; if he had no depth perception, how was he able to move so accurately? Maybe he had learned to echolocate . . .  
"FIDGET!"  
She jumped.  
"Are you going to answer me or not?"  
Fidget's mind snapped into action, fabricating a stream of excuses, eliminating half of them, and jamming the rest into an intricate quilt of lies.  
"Marshal Tickles, I am appalled by your outrageous inquisitions, especially since I'm following the Tsar's orders!"  
"The Tsar's-"  
"Furthermore, I expect you to be more courteous to me from now on. This is an important mission, after all."  
"Wh-"  
"Of course you know all about my assignment, or did my father not tell you?"  
"He-"  
"Unless you've forgotten already? Oh, but of course you haven't, or you would surely be demoted. You're still the marshal, I presume?"  
"Yes, I-"  
"Good, that's a relief. It'd be a shame to lose such a valiant marshal over a simple misunderstanding."  
"I-"  
"No, no. Don't bother apologizing, we all make mistakes."  
"But-"  
"Well, I'd better be off. See you later!"  
Fidget bolted up a rickety ladder, leaving the confused marshal behind. She knew that he wouldn't risk reporting her to the Rat Tsar, lest he be punished for interrupting her activities. Although her excuse was vague, implausible, and more than a little suspicious, Tickles would probably dismiss it as a miscommunication on her part. It was almost too easy.  
Fidget turned sharply and squeezed her body through a small crevice. Once she was through, she stopped to catch her breath. She honestly didn't think she'd make it this far. Now that she was in the clear, she could begin Phase Two of her master plan.  
As Fidget scurried through her secret hallway, she began to worry about the punishment she would receive once her father found out what she was up to. It wasn't really a question of whether or not he _would_ find out, but rather, _when_. He was no fool, after all. He was bound to notice that she was missing, and when he did . . .  
Fidget slowed down. The tunnel was dark, even for a rat's eyes. She slid her tail along the floor to measure the width of the tunnel. The walls were sporadically textured, which made it hard for her to use her whiskers efficiently. She would have to move slowly.  
As she waddled forward, Fidget began to doubt her plan's security. A good number of things could go wrong, especially now that she was behind schedule. It was a dangerous mission, but if she could pull it off, the chimney rats would be more or less emancipated.  
The truth of the matter was that the rats were suffering. They had been driven from their homeland not eighteen years ago, and were still having trouble adapting to the stone prison they now called home. As much as Fidget loved her father, she had to admit that he wasn't a very good leader. If it weren't for his foolish pride, the rats would be living comfortably in a distant field, or maybe a coniferous forest. Instead, they were stuck under a chimney.  
Fidget had little to no memory of her native land, but she knew that the rats had been a lot happier before their banishment. The weather had been wintery, but at least they weren't surrounded by their enemies.  
But that was the point, wasn't it?  
The Rat Tsar was so keen to have his revenge that he had put the safety of his subjects at risk by forcing them to stay in close proximation to The Magician.  
Fidget paused. She had forgotten that it was Christmas Eve. How could she have been so stupid? The Magician always attended the Vishinskys' parties, and he was especially diligent in December.  
Fidget scratched her ear irritably. If she backed down now, she'd have to plan another escape. This could be her only chance . . .  
She stomped her foot decisively. She couldn't give up, no matter what. She'd just have to be extra careful.


End file.
